The Known Stranger
by VampireZombieGirl
Summary: Oz knows he doesn't belong, but thankfully, neither does Connor. Oz x Connor of Angel [ONE SHOT]


"You write music?" 

Oz shrugged. 

The boy flipped a page of the notebook. "'Werewolves and Lesbians?' Sounds like sophisticated stuff." 

Oz pointed at the kid with his beer. "Hey, that's based on real life." 

"Oh? So you're a werewolf, then?" 

"Sure am. And my girlfriend's gay. Ex. The gay thing made it a little tense." He was only so talkative because he was drunk. Almost, anyway. His new band had had a good show; they deserved to get plastered. 

"It's always the petty little things that break up good relationships, isn't it? I had to break up with my dad's possessed girlfriend when she gave birth to an evil god." 

Oz nodded, a little too far gone to tell if the kid was genuine, insane, or just having fun with him. 

"And also because she died." 

But he can see that pain, and so he knows that's real, at least, and he can't help but feel horrible for the kid, because even though the pain really isn't fresh, he can still _smell_ how much it hurts him. 

The kid picked himself up, though, acting as though the moment never happened. "And on top of all that, my dad — a vampire, but that's a different and very, very long story — thought it would be a _good idea_ to erase all my memories." 

Despite the roughness, Oz knew, again, that he felt more than he let on. 

"All the women I've been attracted to since have been... different. Gods. Slayers." 

Oz sat up straight. "Slayers?" 

The kid gave him a serious look, then stood up and offered a hand. "You're drunk. I can give you a ride." 

His band wouldn't wonder where he was. He never left with girls, but his departures on the nights of the full moon were always pretty abrupt. "Sure." 

The silence was only broken once in the kid's hand-me-down car, when he asked, "Do you still love her?" and nodded at the notebook in Oz's lap. Oz just looked out the window. 

He had rented out an apartment in LA so his band could go for a record label, though if they were ever really recognized, he'd run. They could find someone else. He wasn't meant for the spotlight. 

But he was glad to have the room when the kid dropped him off. Except it wasn't really dropping him off, because he was coming up to the room with him, coming in... 

"I wouldn't have written the song if I didn't still love her," he said, as though the kid had just asked the question. "And I really am a werewolf. Friend — sort of — of Buffy." 

The kid just stuck out his hand to shake. "Connor. Angel's kid. Don't tell my parents." 

Oz nodded and took the hand, but Connor didn't let go. "Is there some kind of supernatural insider handshake? Because if there is, I never learned it." 

Connor licked his lips, paused, and then let go. "I know a gay girlfriend didn't work out, but what about a bisexual boyfriend? Or... boy. It doesn't have to be anything." 

But it did have to be something, and they both knew it. They were stuck in a world that they couldn't possibly escape from, one that most people passed through without realizing it, unable to see the monsters all around them. 

Oz was never one to say that much out loud, though, so he settled for trying to get the message through with a kiss. It seemed to work; he could feel tension wash off of Connor in waves, as though he'd been waiting a long time to meet someone like Oz. 

"Rule one: no biting," Oz said as he rested his forehead on Connor's shoulder, fumbling with his pants. "Too tempted to bite back." 

"Rule two: no meeting the parents," Connor mumbled against his neck, "ever." 

"Rule three: full moons are always a good excuse." Oz had his pants open, finally, and stroked Connor through his boxers. 

"Rule... rule four... uhn, fuck." Connor bucked against Oz's hand, earning him a smile. 

"Rule five: there is no Fight Club," Oz said, deciding that that was enough rules for a first date when Connor ripped his fly open and grasped him roughly. 

By the time they came, a lamp was broken and a chair upturned. Connor passed out quickly and Oz knew he had to wake him soon, was sure he had somewhere to be other than at some strange man's apartment, but first... 

He picked up his notebook, flipping to a blank page before he began to write. 

The band said, two days later, that "Son of an Angel" didn't really sound like most of his other work. 

Oz just shrugged. "There is no Fight Club."


End file.
